


A shot in the dark, aimed right at my throat

by saltzatore



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-06
Updated: 2012-05-15
Packaged: 2017-11-04 22:00:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltzatore/pseuds/saltzatore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kind of an alternate ending to 3.21: The gang manages to lock Klaus and Alaric away. Neither of them is amused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Looking for heaven, found the devil in me

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I ship them.

  


 

It's probably Elijah who comes up with the plan.

Or, maybe, Katherine. Payback of some sorts. Poetic justice.

They are all there, the Salvatores, the doppelganger, the mini-vamp, Klaus’s lap dog. Even little Jeremy Gilbert.

Elijah, standing a little further off, watching the scene without moving a muscle.

The witch, arrogant as ever. Already chanting in the background, power rolling off her in waves, the very air around her vibrating with it. Voices on the wind, some mournful, some delighted, joining her incantation.

Alaric and Klaus are the only ones _inside_ the Bennet house, lying on the floor of the hall. Trussed up with chains like Christmas presents. Drugged beyond their eyeballs with vervain. And possibly wolfsbane in Klaus’s case. Alaric’s thoughts should be racing, trying to find a way to get free, but his mind is just as immobile as his body.

They got the drop on him via witch-aneurism, putting him down long enough to put so much vervain into his system he can _taste_ it in his mouth. It takes him too long to figure out what they are up to. By the time he realizes they are sealing the two of them into the Bennet house with the power of a hundred furious, dead witches and a spell that would have made Esther proud, the magic is already in place.

Damon is the only one talking to him. When everyone has left, he is still standing in the open door, looking down at Alaric.

“I should have snapped your neck before this happened,” he says. There’s genuine regret in his eyes, a rare sight for him. “I’m sorry.”

Alaric wishes he had the necessary muscle control to sneer. The pathetic son of a bitch thinks Alaric actually gives a shit about him. The thought alone makes him feel sick. He’d love to rub the arrogant face in the fact that they have never been friends. That he would never have tolerated a bloodsucker at his side if he had been in his right mind—in his _current_ mind.

But he can’t speak and he can’t move and then Damon is gone.

It takes both of them the whole night to come out of their vervain-induced stupor and start freeing themselves from the bonds. Klaus gets free first and immediately tries to leave—and throws an impressive temper tantrum when he finds out that he can’t. Including yelling empty threats at the top of his lungs and smashing worm-eaten furniture into the wall.

Alaric watches him, amused. Dislocates his shoulder to be able to finally wriggle out of the chains and puts it back in with a satisfying crunch.

And then it’s on.

There’s no trigger, Alaric doesn’t say something stupid, Klaus doesn’t provoke him with a look. But there is a fight. Or, _fights_ , plural.

Actually, it’s more like a war.

They rip into each other with everything they have. Fangs, claws, fists. They throw each other through walls, landing blows powerful enough to sever limbs from bodies. They break bones, sink fangs into each other’s throats to tear them out. Use every advantage they have over the other.

It goes on for hours— for _days_ and they never stop. Klaus turns into a wolf at some point and lays into Alaric so fiercely that he dies, twice, from the blood poisoning, leaving him weak and sick and hurting for an evening. Alaric manages to tear Klaus’s head off only to discover that it will, indeed, grow back within a few hours.

At first, it hurts. Every blow reverberates through their bodies, wringing cries and moans and groans from their throats—but those sounds die down eventually. They turn into grunts and huffs. The occasional growl when they have enough air for it. Or still the necessary organs left to form them.

It’s all about getting the first hit. Whoever has the element of surprise and pain on his side, generally wins the match. And that’s all it becomes after some time, a match. A test to see who is stronger, who can do the most damage in the shortest time.

They get creative. And increasingly bloody. They never give up, no matter how deep the wounds are, no matter how much bone you can see through the gaps. No matter how often Klaus breaks Alaric’s spine or snaps his neck. No matter how often Alaric buries his fist in Klaus’s torso, closing his hand around the hybrid’s heart to make it stop beating for a night.

The floor is wet and shiny with the blood they spill. They slip in it, they roll in it, until they are covered in it from head to toe. They fight like animals with no reason, with no victory to achieve, because there is nothing to win in the end. Just a brief respite for however long it takes the other to heal.

The fact that they are not getting anywhere with the fighting sinks in, slowly. They reach a truce. Kind of. They stay away from each other, as far as they can. Klaus disappears upstairs, declaring the upper rooms his property.

Alaric ‘moves’ into the basement where he is protected against the sunlight during the day. He drags as much broken furniture into the room as he can and starts working on stakes with a shard of glass. They are useless against Klaus, of course, but it gives him something to do. Most of all the opportunity to indulge in violent fantasies of torturing the motherfucker until all Klaus can do is scream and beg for mercy.

The first floor becomes a safe zone. Sort of.

And then they wait.

“You know, they’re not coming for you,” Alaric says one day, his voice deliberately flat. He knows Klaus can hear him, there’s no need for him to raise it. “They got you where they wanted you all the time. Away from Elena and locked away so you can’t hurt anybody else.”

Upstairs, Klaus stops whatever he’s doing and goes silent.

“Of course, if you had a family that actually cared for you, you might have a chance to get out of here—“

It’s the first time Alaric dies in the basement. The fight leading to his death is sluggish in comparison to the others before, and it ends with Klaus tearing his heart out and stomping on it, gushing blood everywhere. It’s the last thing Alaric sees before it goes dark.

Fucking drama queen.

They calm down somewhat after this. Sit down, heal. Consider the situation, try to come up with a plan to get them out. Alaric figures that Klaus is relying on his hybrids to break him out somehow, on the infamous sire-bond. Maybe he’s waiting for Tyler to show up. He won’t, Alaric is very sure of that. The gang will be chaining Tyler up in the boarding house dungeon if he only so much as _thinks_ Klaus’s name.

It’s a surreal situation; it feels like a dream but it’s painfully real at the same time.

Alaric hates it. He can’t help but thinks about all the time he could spend _outside_ , getting rid of the rest of the vile creatures. He thinks about how he could do _something_ to protect the people in town from the Salvatores and their ensemble of supernatural monsters. It’s a moot point to lament the time lost while wasting away in this hole, but he will get out, somehow. And when he does, there will be hell to pay.

Nothing happens. Nobody comes for them.

They start to talk at some point. Because they simply don't have anything else to do.

Well, _talk_ might be a bit exaggerated. It starts with Klaus taunting him with all the ways he's fucked up his life. Making up details, Alaric is sure, to make him angry.

"It sucks to realize that your precious Damon choses Elena over your sorry ass, doesn't it? That he'd rather lock you away than look for a way to save you. I know there are ways, witches can cure pretty much anything. Just when you thought you'd found a friend."

It's a pitiful attempt to hurt him, but Alaric merely smiles. Damon is not nor has ever been his friend. Damon is a mindless animal that had used him to cover his tracks and have a drinking buddy in his free time. At the end of the day he would always have killed Alaric to save the doppelganger, no matter what.

"Your wife couldn't wait to sell your body to me, she _begged_ me to choose you as my meat-suit. She must have really hated you."

It doesn't hurt, not one bit. Isobel was a monster, even before she left him to become a bigger one. Someone who has been longing to become a creature like that just can't be normal, doesn't deserve his sympathy. He was a fool to mourn her. But at least one good thing came out of it: He became the proud hunter he is now, so he has to thank her in a way.

But Klaus isn't the only one who has a way with words.

"At least my father didn't want to kill me at every opportunity he got, he didn’t hate my guts. He respected me. He loved me, even. Wouldn’t you like to know what _that_ feels like?"

When Alaric wakes up hours later he takes a certain amount of pride in the fact that it was him who got the first reaction out of the other. He also knows now that it hurts a lot to feel someone's hand close around your intestines and have them ripped out. But the hurt flashing through the blue eyes has been worth every feeble twitch.

The next time it’s Jenna.

“She was your girl, wasn’t she? I still remember how she was begging me to let her go, she was so scared to die…”

It hurts, this time. It really _hurts_. Jenna was innocent, he’d loved her. She didn’t deserve what the bastard did to her. It hurts so much Alaric goes into a blind frenzy and comes to with his hands stuck in Klaus’s torso and the monster groaning hoarsely around the fist closed around its heart. Alaric rips it out, throws it aside and kicks the writhing body until it stills.

They are both Originals, so it takes them a lot longer to feel the effects of blood loss.

There comes the day when Alaric finds it getting increasingly harder to concentrate—and the ache in his bones starts bothering him. His teeth ache so badly he keeps his mouth shut, doesn’t talk back when Klaus tries to taunt him about something from upstairs.

One day the smell of dirty dog permeates Alaric’s senses and the sound of silent paws descending the stairs drags him out of his daydreaming. He tracks the sound to the living-room, where it stops and Klaus remains motionless, doesn’t even breathe anymore. Then there is a shriek and the sound of small bones snapping—and the smell of blood. Animal blood. Massive jaws closing over tiny bones, crushing them.

Then there is silence again.

The hunger gets worse every night. Alaric has no idea how long they are in the house, but he’s beginning to realize that he won’t be able to keep on his feet and conscious for much longer. It’s eating him alive, searing through his veins, hurting bad enough to make him moan. Klaus answers each of his sounds with a dark chuckle, as if he doesn’t suffer from just about the very same thing.

“Hungry, love? Too bad you never learned to hunt like the rest of us.”

Alaric ignores the taunts until he can’t ignore the agony any longer. One moment he is twisting on the floor, straining against the pain tearing his stomach in half, fangs extended and panting in the darkness—

—and then he wakes up on the bottom of the stairs, his limbs twisted unnaturally from what he assumes must have been a bad fall. And the taste of blood in his mouth.

Not _his_ blood.

The hunger isn't gone… but it’s bearable. He feels better, stronger. As if he has eaten.

Klaus is nowhere to be seen, but he hears a slightly accelerated heartbeat upstairs and a low growl as he starts moving, twisting arms and legs back into their natural position.

Alaric laughs, like it’s the funniest thing he has ever heard. A deep, rich laugh that echoes off the walls and sounds strange, even to his own ears.

“I fed on you.”

Klaus remains silent.

“What’s the matter, couldn’t fight me off, big guy?”

Klaus is fast, he has to give him that. Alaric is still dusting his torn clothes off, when he is suddenly grabbed and crashed into a wall, hard enough to send plaster and dust exploding to both sides. Yellow wolf eyes glare at him, hybrid fangs gleaming in a face twisted into a vicious snarl that doesn’t look human anymore.

“If you want to live to see another day, I suggest you keep away from me.”

Klaus’s voice is barely a growl, the sound so intense it reverberates through both their bodies, sending a shiver down Alaric’s spine.

“Give me your best try,” he hisses back, never breaking eye-contact, as pissed and stubborn as the hybrid. “Whatever you can do to me will not hold me back.”

It turns out Klaus is really inventive when he wants to be, the days that follow are a mix of pain and wounds that never close, showing him a new kind of agony he has never felt before. There is a difference between them, between him and the hybrid: Alaric might be as strong as Klaus and as fast as him, but the man is still a thousand years older and more experienced. Especially in the art of torture. And it shows.

Not that it stops Alaric from grinning weakly at his tormenter when he finally has control over his facial muscles again.

“Was that all?”

It isn't the end of it, not for another too long and painful day.

It is true, then. What Alaric has picked up about the original father, about Mikael. It is possible to drink vampire blood as a vampire, to find sustenance in it. Maybe it was Esther’s doing, maybe it was part of the spell, he doesn’t know. It does, however, provide him with a way to keep him going. And with the sick satisfaction that comes from the knowledge that it will be him who laughs longest when he eventually drains Klaus of his last blood.

 

 


	2. I'm ready to suffer and I'm ready to hope

Alaric has no idea how long they have been locked in the house. Nor how long it has been since they killed each other the last time. Maybe it’s been two weeks, maybe more. Time kind of flies by when you don’t have evil vampire plots to scheme. Or vampires to kill. Or a council full of supernatural relatives to infiltrate.  
  
They stay away from each other; Alaric barely sees more of Klaus than a shadow or a movement upstairs. They seem to have reached a truce of some kind, and the conditions are easy: Stay away from me and I won’t kill you.  
  
It all goes to hell on a sunny afternoon.   
  
There are footsteps outside the house. Footsteps that are coming closer.  
  
For a moment Alaric thinks he must be imagining things, but when the odd scraping sound from upstairs suddenly stops and Klaus goes silent, he knows that the hybrid has heard it as well. A moment later, silent footsteps descend the stairs, barely audible, even for Alaric’s enhanced hearing.  
  
And then there are two heartbeats where there had only been one before, Klaus’s—slightly accelerated— _excited_ —and someone else’s. And the second heartbeat is getting closer and closer to the house.  
  
Alaric gets to his feet and sneaks up the stairs, avoiding the squeaky wooden planks with practiced ease. Outside, it’s bright daylight and when he arrives at the stop of the stairs he finds Klaus standing next to the front door. The hybrid’s eyes are closed in concentration, his head cocked to the side, his whole body tense, as if he is about to jump.  
  
Then there’s the smell: Human. Female.  
  
Alive.  
  
 _Blood._  
  
Alaric freezes where he is, eyes drawn to the front door. Klaus senses his presence and his back tenses even more, but, other than that, he doesn’t move a muscle. Still as a statue.  
  
It all happens so fast, _too fast_ for even Alaric’s vampire senses to make out more details than the front door opening, sunlight streaming in and a girl crying out in a panic. He never sees Klaus move, but the next second the hybrid sinks his fangs into someone’s throat and starts drinking.   
  
Alaric gets dizzy at the smell of blood so close and feels his own fangs descend. His stomach twists in anticipation; any second now, just one more moment and he will lose it, get lost behind a curtain of blood and red and rip into a human being like the monster that he is—  
  
Nothing happens.   
  
There is blood, and it’s close and he’s a vampire—and he doesn’t move a muscle.  
  
Klaus, on the other hand, doesn’t stop drinking. The girl finally stops whimpering and sags heavily into Klaus’s arms, and still he doesn’t stop and Alaric realizes he is going to drain her.  
  
Alaric _snaps_.   
  
Suddenly he is holding the terrified girl upright, Klaus is lying in the far corner of the room, missing one arm and snarling like a wild thing. Wide, dazed eyes stare at Alaric, begging for mercy when the girl’s torn throat can no longer make a sound. She tries to get away from him and this close her blood smells…  
  
Like blood. Like ordinary blood, nothing that makes his mouth water or causes him to sink his fangs into her.  
  
Alaric doesn’t know what else to do with her, so he compels her to leave— _leave and never come back_ —and the girl has barely stumbled outside when Klaus barrels into Alaric’s back, crushing him against the wall.  
  
“What the hell are you doing?”  
  
One-armed, Klaus is not a very skilled fighter and even though he gets some well-placed kicks in, Alaric overpowers him in the end, leaving the hybrid broken and bleeding in the hallway.  
  
It’s the last fight he ever wins against Klaus.  
  
Later the same night, with his arm grown back and a shout of rage that could wake the dead, Klaus rushes into the basement like a whirlwind, so fast, so deadly Alaric doesn’t see him coming. The last time Klaus had tortured him pales in comparison to what he does to him this time. There are no words in the English language—or any other language Alaric knows to describe the agony the hybrid puts him through, over and over again.  
  
Alaric never fully recovers from it. His wounds close, his limbs grow back, but he barely has enough strength left to drag himself into a corner. Since Klaus has had blood and did not have to spend the last of his energy on putting himself back together again, Alaric knows he won’t get a shot at getting another dose of vampire blood anymore. Not even if he falls into a blood frenzy.  
  
It takes him a few days to realize that he is going to die in the basement; he’s going to desiccate until he is nothing but a shriveled shell, surrounded by worm-eaten furniture and his own blood. He is too exhausted to be scared; all he can think of is that he will finally leave this wretched place and the stinking hybrid behind.  
  
And die he does, a slow, agonizing death. His body goes crazy, he's hot, he's cold, he's in pain, writhing on the bloody floor, crying out in agony until his voice gives up and he can't get a single croak out. Pain becomes his existence, every breath he manages to drag in grates in his lungs and even though he no longer needs to breathe—he can’t stop. It’s a reflex; something his body gives into whenever he is conscious enough to be aware of it.   
  
At one point he begins to hallucinate. He sees people, some he knows, others he doesn't. Damon laughing with him, toasting him with a drink, joking about Elijah's hair and killing rogue vampires together. Jenna glaring at him after he got home from being possessed by the very man who is now responsible for his death...  
  
In the end, he doesn't die. He's barely conscious, no longer breathing, when there's a low growl next to him.  
  
And then there's blood running down his throat, warm blood. Vampire blood. And he wants more and more, but he can't fucking move and then it's gone and everything goes black.  
  
Alaric spends the next days trying to understand what has happened.  
  
Klaus saved his life.   
  
He's given him blood—and Alaric doesn't know what to make of it. They've been trying to kill each other from the very first day they were forced into this situation. Why would Klaus save him? Why would he share what little blood he had left with Alaric? It doesn't make any sense.  
  
The logical thing would be to ask him—and of course that's exactly what Alaric doesn't do. Because pretending it didn't happen is easier. And doesn't require a thank you. Not that he'd consider that. Ever.  
  
One day Alaric wakes up to sounds he has never heard before. A low keening that rises in volume and pitch until it ends in a shrieking sound—and then stops.  
  
And starts again.  
  
Sometimes there are breathless groans and moans. A choked-off gasp for breath.  
  
And then the keening again.  
  
It sounds awful, making the hair at the back of Alaric’s neck stand up and his stomach twist. Whatever this is, it sounds like something is dying, slowly, painfully.  
  
It takes him way too long to realize it’s Klaus’s voice.  
  
Alaric frowns and starts the long process of getting to his feet. His limbs are stiff and hurt when he moves them, making him feel like a person four times his age. He’s moving slowly, has to lean on the wall a lot to keep upright. By the time he has reached the top of his stairs he’s sweating and a little shaky, feels disturbingly _human_ and weak. He listens into the silence that fell across the house when he was half-way up the stairs, trying to figure out what to do now.  
  
Maybe it’s a trap, maybe Klaus is feeling bored and has decided to draw him out and then attack him as soon as Alaric enters his ‘property’. They haven’t had a fight ever since Klaus tortured him for letting the girl go, maybe the hybrid thinks it’s time to start a new.  
  
The sound starts again, a miserable, hoarse whimper.  
  
Alaric has to maneuver through the shadows to avoid crossing the patches where sunlight is streaming in through the windows, but he gets up the stairs to the first floor eventually. One of the doors is open; it’s the room where the cries are coming from. Alaric approaches it slowly, ready to defend himself—  
  
He needn’t have worried, Klaus is in no position to harm him. The hybrid is lying on the floor, on his side, his arms wrapped around his head. His whole body is tense, shaking so hard the floor is vibrating beneath Alaric’s feet. Klaus’s back is to the door so Alaric can’t see his face, but he doesn’t have to, the sounds he is making are enough to tell him that Klaus is _hurting_.  
  
It’s the witches, they are all over him, Alaric can hear them hissing on the wind.  
  
Alaric is used to hearing Klaus roar in pain, he is used to the groans Klaus issues when bones break beneath Alaric’s hands, he’s heard every variation of every sound Klaus has made whenever Alaric is strong or fast enough to get a good kick or punch in.  
  
This is different. There is nothing of the anger, of the rage that usually accompanies their fights left in the hoarse voice. No hissing, no growling, no threats directed at Alaric, nothing of that.  
  
What he sees is no longer a sentient being but a terrified _creature,_ desperate to get away from whatever is hurting it, twisting in agony so severe it makes Alaric sick to his stomach to watch it.   
  
He should go downstairs, get his stakes and finish it, even if Klaus’s death would only be temporary. Or find a way to keep him down and incapacitated so Alaric can drink from him and get his own strength up, to even out their balance again, give him a fighting chance.  
  
In the end he does neither. He tells himself he doesn’t know what the witches will do to him if he interferes; so far they have completely ignored his presence and he would very much like to keep it that way. It goes on for hours, and when Klaus’s voice finally gives out and all there is left is the sound of him twisting weakly against the floor it’s almost a relief.  
  
Alaric takes advantage of the state Klaus is in, he takes a look at the rooms Klaus calls his and is surprised to find them almost… homelike. Well, by their slightly sunken standards. The furniture that is still there is still functioning. Worm-eaten, of course, but whole.   
  
What surprises him most are the walls. They are covered in pictures, some of them more detailed than others. Animals, all kinds and sizes, people, some Alaric knows—Klaus’s family—others he doesn’t know. Abstract art. A wall he first thinks is just dirty but turns out to be covered in various colors of different materials. The rooms almost have a museum kind of flair, even though most of the paint seems to be dried mud.   
  
Alaric is pulled out of his tour by a sudden silence. From one second to the next, Klaus goes completely still, there's nothing. No heartbeat, no breathing, no more sounds of pain. Alaric finds him curled on his side, unmoving. Klaus’s arms have fallen away from his head, his face a mess, still pulled into a grimace of pain, blood running down his cheeks from his eyes, his nose, his mouth. Eyes open and blood-shot, no longer seeing.   
  
He’s dead. Or as ‘dead’ as either of them ever is.  
  
Alaric spends a long time staring down at Klaus. Prods him with a shoe to watch the limp body shudder and then still again. Debates kicking Klaus to make it more difficult for him to heal, so that it takes longer for him to come back. Thinks back to all the fantasies he’s had about mutilating and punishing Klaus if he ever got the chance for it… and puts them aside.  
  
And even though his stomach is growling at the smell of fresh vampire blood so close to him and his mind keeps insisting that he needs to take advantage of the situation to survive—he turns and leaves. Goes down the stairs and back into his basement.  
  
It takes a long time—too long—for Klaus to wake up.  
  
Long enough for Alaric to realize that, if by some miracle the witches have managed to _kill_ -kill Klaus… that he will be alone. Trapped in this house, dying a never-ending death—well and truly alone. No one to talk to, no one to fight with, no presence at the edge of his senses to remind him that he is still alive—kind of—and kicking.  
  
Forever alone.  
  
Not cool. Not cool at all.  
  
The first breath Klaus takes when his heart finally starts to beat again is echoed by a sigh of relief that Alaric will forever deny has left his body.  
  
Life goes on after that.  
  
One night, Alaric can’t sleep. He’s wandering through his rooms, restless, unable to lay down and sleep. Not that he needs the rest like he did when he was still human, but his body is getting weaker with every day he spends without food. And still he can’t bear the idea of staying still for too long.  
  
It’s a night like countless nights before, nothing out of the ordinary.   
  
Alaric stops in his tracks when he hears footsteps descend the stairs, slow, uncharacteristically hesitant. They stop—and Klaus starts to turn. Alaric is used to the sounds of this by now, his hearing picking up every break, every shift, every snap of bones—until there are paws scraping across the floor, disappearing into the living-room.  
  
The house falls silent.  
  
Klaus prefers to hunt in his wolf-form. Whenever some animal gets close enough to the house, he can lure it inside and then catch it. Alaric knows that Damon is capable of manipulating crows, but Klaus doesn’t seem to be limited to a certain species. And he will—has to—eat anything to survive, wild cats, birds, rabbits—whatever furry or feathery creature shows up. Alaric expects to hear the snap of small bones, but it never comes.  
  
Instead there is silence. Complete and utter silence.  
  
Klaus is still there, Alaric can hear his heartbeat clearly, but the wolf isn't moving.  
  
Intrigued, Alaric sneaks upstairs. He stops at the foot of the stairs, looking at the wolf he can see standing motionless in the middle of the living-room. It’s an ugly, shaggy, dirty dark beast, bigger and with broader shoulders than any dog Alaric has ever seen. Yellow eyes glow softly in the shadows, their gaze fixed steadily on something outside of Alaric’s line of sight. Outside of the house.  
  
It’s a weird sight. Alaric doesn’t know anything about wolves, can’t read their body language at all, can’t figure out how they tick. But this—  
  
The animal is standing in front of one of the broken big windows. Its tail low between its legs, its gaze is fixed on the full moon in the sky, furry ears perked and listening. Once or twice, the big head rises and the wolf takes a step back, opens its mouth—as if it is about to howl—but there is no sound. Then the wolf tenses, eyes following something furry running through the shadows. A heavy paw lifts—and the wolf freezes, puts it back down. And starts pacing, silent steps, barely audible, back and forth in front of the window. Its whole body tense, ready to hunt, to kill, to follow its nature—until it remembers that it can’t get out and goes back to its restless pacing.  
  
The beast is trapped, they both are. Miserable, wanting to get out, to run. See something other than the same rooms day after day, smell something different than old blood and dust and rotting wood.  
  
At one point, the wolf turns and looks at Alaric, looks him straight into the eyes. They stare at each other, unmoving. No threats are issued, no growl leaves their throats, for once there is no desire to kill the other.  
  
And then the wolf goes back to its silent vigil and Alaric disappears into the basement and resumes his pacing.  
  
Two nights later Alaric is pulled out of a light doze by something warm being dropped onto his chest. It’s a dead rabbit. Klaus is nowhere to be seen.  
  
Alaric has never tried animal blood before, but he forces himself to drain the body.   
  
It’s disgusting. And it tastes even worse coming back up. He can’t keep it down, no way. Alaric spends the rest of the night choking up bits of rabbit blood, feeling sick and miserable instead of powerful or invincible. It sucks, it sucks so much he finds himself wishing he had never accepted the deal Esther had made him.  
  
Three nights later he is pulled out of a state of half-unconsciousness when he is grabbed and pulled against something warm and breathing. Half out of his mind and totally confused, Alaric tries to fight his attacker off, but he is too weak. At one point there is an arm in front of his mouth and the delicious scent of vampire blood fills his senses. His fangs descend and he rips into the flesh—and everything disappears behind a blood-red curtain.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks go to pleasebekidding for the beta and being the wonderful, supportive Starbuck that she is. I love you for putting up with me! *hugs*


End file.
